


been saving all my summers for you

by somethingdifferent



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (gene belcher voice) THIS IS ME NOW, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Pure Unadulterated Fluff, Suburbia, but also porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-02 20:48:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4073392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingdifferent/pseuds/somethingdifferent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"I have an idea," she murmurs, taking hold of his wrist so that she has control of what he does, so that she can guide him where she wants. "It's a game."</em> There's absolutely nothing to do, but that's not really an excuse.</p><p>[petyr/sansa; suburbia]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. petals

 

 

 

 _ \- _ pick my petals off and make my heart explode

****

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She can't spend another minute in the house, not when everyone is there and everyone is fighting for space and everyone is knocking off of each other like a sentient pinball machine. Arya is playing video games with Jon in the living room and both of them are yelling at the top of their lungs, and Robb is on the phone with his girlfriend in the hall and every single word he says is disgustingly sweet and sickening, and Bran has taken over the basement with his weirdo friends and Sansa thinks they're probably satanists, actually, and Rickon has essentially destroyed the kitchen counter with all of the food he spilled over it, but he doesn't seem to mind and only sits there, laughing, clapping his sticky hands together, and Dad is sitting in his armchair reading the newspaper and steadfastly ignoring all of it, and Mom is ricocheting from place to place, shouting at all of them as she attempts to control the chaos. Which she can't. No one can.

"Mom," Sansa calls from the door, "I'm going, okay? I'm taking the car."

"Okay," her mother yells back, distracted, and even as she closes the door Sansa can hear her continue to shout, "Will you please keep it down? For God's sake, Ned, are you even paying attention to any of this?"

Once the door is closed, though, and she's outside, everything is suddenly quiet. The street is empty, all of the cars pulled into garages and driveways, and all down the block the only sound is the hum of electric porch lights, the only source of illumination on the street.

As she drives past all the gated lawns, she can see more evidence of how deserted the neighborhood is on a Sunday night, with everyone preferring to stay inside rather than brave the unbearable heat, the mosquitoes, the darkened curves of the road, more dangerous at night than during the day. Ordinarily, Sansa would be indoors too, but with Robb and Jon both back from school and everyone else deciding to stay in, the house is less of a safe haven from all the annoyances of life and more like a minefield of them.

Now that she's here, though, driving around with no particular destination in mind, she's beginning to realize that no one's out because of another reason: there's absolutely nothing to do on a Sunday night. She could call up Jeyne, but she doubts her friend would be allowed out late when there's school tomorrow, even if they're graduating in a week.

Which leaves Sansa stuck, not wanting to go back home, not wanting to drive around from cul-de-sac to cul-de-sac, from dead-end street to dead-end street, eventually hitting a raccoon because she can't see it in the dark (which did happen, once, to Jon), and not wanting to go anywhere to actually see anyone. And she's got hours to kill before Mom even realizes she has no reason to be out.

After ten minutes of aimless wandering, she finally emerges from the jigsaw puzzle that is her neighborhood and onto the main road, figuring she'll keep going until she hits on something good. To her left, a train is rumbling past, one of the last ones for the day, while in the other direction cars stream down the road in a bright blur, the few drivers who worked today all headed home. At the third stop, she realizes with a jolt that the closest theater is only a couple blocks away, and she pulls hastily into the right turn lane before the light turns green.

Sansa can only think of a few movies out, but she figures she'll pick whichever one is playing next. She's grateful, at least, that she had the foresight to grab her wallet before she left the house.

She ends up getting a ticket for some sci-fi movie that's already been out for almost two months, something she can remember Bran saying he wanted to see, only he couldn't because it was rated R. No one in it is particularly famous, and taking the obscure title into account, she figures it's more of a thinking man's film than anything else, something Arya or Jon would like.

It's within the realm of possibilities that she'll enjoy this, but it's not particularly likely.

Even after going to the bathroom and getting a soda and popcorn, Sansa walks into the theater with ten minutes to spare. She's the only person there, and an ad for Coca-Cola is playing that's already halfway finished.

She settles into the center of the seats, choosing the row exactly in the middle and the chair exactly in the middle, and wonders idly what would happen if no one were to buy a ticket to a movie. Would it still happen? The whole concept is like the tree falling in the forest question, and Sansa congratulates herself aloud for thinking of it. She could always ask an employee, but that would ruin the illusion, she decides.

Sansa realizes, suddenly, that this is the first time she's ever been in a theater entirely alone. She could go running up and down the stairs, dance from row to row, serenade the actors in the trailers, but now that she's in her seat she doesn't want to move, and instead she eats her popcorn in quiet contentment while on the screen a giant head monologues about the importance of quitting smoking.

There's only a minute left before the movie is supposed to start when another person finally enters the theater, and Sansa actually lets out a sigh of disappointment when she hears steps behind the aisle divider.

That disappointment quickly turns into confusion when the person walking up the stairs stops at her row and looks directly at her. She can't see his face very well in the dim light, and it's unsettling the way he fixes his stare on her.

"Sansa," the man says, the word a question more than an identification.

Suddenly, she recognizes him, his voice, even the silhouette he creates in the darkened room. "Mr. Baelish?" she calls out, and he raises a hand in acknowledgement.

As he begins to move down the row, she can see him more clearly, and it's no longer so odd to her that she didn't know him in the first place; he has forgone the suit she normally sees him in, instead wearing dark slacks and a button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, without a tie. Sansa can't recall a single instance that she saw him where he wasn't wearing a tie with that funny bird-shaped pin, not even at the parties he attended at her house where every other man even close to his age was dressed in a polo shirt, khaki shorts, and sneakers.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, hoping her voice doesn't betray the nervousness she can't keep herself from feeling. She knows the man, but only in the way of his face, only insofar as she knows that he knows her parents, that her mother grew up with him, that her father dislikes his presence but tolerates it. She has very little knowledge of him beyond his name, the nickname her dad calls him when he thinks she can't hear, and the fact that he's some sort of accountant. Or just that his job has something to do with numbers and money, even if Joffrey told her once that he owns a strip club in the city, one his father had taken him to when his mother was out of town.

She had thought it ridiculous at the time, that a man so buttoned-up and polished would own such a business, but here, now, as he looks down at her impassively, she's starting to think that she might have missed something before. He isn't laughing at a joke that isn't funny or smiling genially at the waspish housewives in her neighborhood; he's staring at her with dark, steady gaze and a smirk that she never noticed before, that tilts up one corner of his mouth and makes him look like he's laughing at someone's expense without their knowing it. She recalls how Margaery had commented once, offhand, that Mr. Baelish was more handsome than most of their parents' friends, except for the gray running through his hair in flecks. She remembers blushing about it too, insisting that he was too old, only to look at him at the next family party to see if her friend had been correct in the least bit and discovering that, unfortunately, she was.

He's both someone she knows and someone she doesn't, at once familiar and unfamiliar.

He remains standing when he reaches her, his eyes not leaving hers despite the CGI chaos occurring in front of them. "I've been wanting to see this one for a while," he explains, tipping his head in the direction of the screen. "Work's been busy lately, though, so I didn't have time until now. Tonight, actually. What about you?"

"Just had to get out of the house," she replies, laughing a little, though she quiets when his eyes remain impassive. "Here, do you want to sit down?" As soon as she asks, she regrets it, but it would be rude not to at least offer.

He answers in the way of taking the chair next to her, moving beside her while Sansa takes a sip from her soda and tries not to panic. Should she make small talk? Does he want her to speak at all? He feels closer than she expected, and it takes her a moment to realize it's because the armrest between their seats is up. Sansa considers putting it back down, but she decides against it, figuring he'll likely only be offended, and he's not taking up a single inch of her space, anyway.

As the previews begin, they settle into a reasonably comfortable silence. She can't help but sneak quick looks at him as the trailers continue, but stops when she sees the corner of his mouth turning up into a half-smile, making it obvious that he noticed her glances. She nearly jumps when he finally speaks again, only a few minutes after the film starts.

"You're graduating in a week, right? Are you excited?" He asks it like he already knows the answer, which he must, but like he wants to hear her say it.

"Yes," she stammers out after a moment, glancing quickly at him, only to find that his attention is on her alone, the movie forgotten entirely. She laughs nervously, fiddling with the lid of her soda. "I'm ready to finish high school."

"Anything in particular you want for a gift?"

"Why would you get me a gift?" she asks, confused.

"I'm invited to your graduation party," he explains. "Not that you had a say in the matter."

Sansa lets out a little sound of impatience, ignoring, for a second, who she is with. "They always do this, I swear. Every adult just throws their kids' birthday parties and graduation parties and fucking moving out parties for themselves, so they can show off all of their nice things to all of their stuck-up friends. It's pointless. And boring."

He laughs, and she suddenly remembers herself, blushing at the note of admiration in his reply. "I think I should be offended, but you're not wrong."

"Well, you're different," she concedes. "You don't have kids."

"None that you know of, anyway." His voice is serious, but the glimmer of amusement in his eyes betrays him.

Sansa feigns a gasp. "Do you have a secret double life that none of us know about?"

"Of course not, Sansa. I'm an open book."

She thinks of Joffrey's story, and considers the man in front of her, his smooth voice, his smooth hands, his smooth expression. She realizes that their voices have naturally dropped to whispers, her shoulders tilted close to him conspiratorially, as if they weren't alone after all. "I think you're lying, Mr. Baelish."

"Good instinct. I'm sure even you have your secrets." He smirks. "And call me Petyr."

"Petyr," she tries, tasting the word on her tongue and finding that she doesn't dislike it. She had almost forgotten he has a first name. "That feels weird."

"You're an adult now. You should get used to calling me that."

"Okay, Petyr," she says, grinning.

He says nothing in reply, only shrugs and looks back toward the screen, once again focused on the film. Sansa can't recall exactly what's happening in the movie anymore, but then again, she probably would have been lost even without Mr. Baelish -  _Petyr,_ she reminds herself - distracting her. She doesn't like science fiction very much, and Arya isn't there to shush her when she talks through the most important parts.

Actually, no one is there, except for her and him. Sansa is suddenly very aware of the fact that the wide gap between them has been reduced to only a few inches of space, that if she were to shift too much in her chair she would brush up against him. She wonders when that happened.

For twenty minutes - maybe more, maybe less, she can't really tell without checking her phone, and every minute seems like an eternity when he's sitting right there - they're both silent, Sansa trying valiantly (and failing miserably) to invest herself in the film.

"How much do you want to bet she's a robot?"

Sansa turns, watching as Petyr keeps his eyes fixed on the screen, as if he had said nothing at all. "I don't think this one is about robots."

This time, she can see as he speaks, replying, "Aliens, androids, same difference."

"I thought you said you'd been wanting to see this movie," she accuses, halfway between teasing and questioning. "Why do you keep talking to me?"

"I lied; I was bored. There was nothing to do." He finally settles his eyes on her, cocking his head. "I didn't want to ruin your illusions about adulthood. Nights like this are just as endless in the future as they are now. And besides," he adds, "I think you're much more interesting than any movie."

Sansa can feel herself flush, and she ducks her head to hide her reaction from him. She doesn't even notice her leg shaking, her heel lifted off of the ground, not until he puts his hand on her knee to stop it.

She glances down, watching the way his fingers twitch in place on her bare skin, like he's unsure about where to move them. She should feel surprised, but she doesn't. She had wondered since her birthday party a year ago about him being attracted to her. By seventeen, she was already familiar with the look of lust in a man's eyes, had seen it in Joffrey plenty of times before he left school, had seen it in older guys when she and Margaery and Jeyne would go to the mall sometimes, but much more restrained, an attempt to cover their baser urges.

When Mr. Baelish looked at her, smiling as he handed her a present (some book she hasn't even looked at, but now she thinks she'll have to dig it out of her dresser when she gets home) before Mrs. Baratheon had whisked him away to hiss something in his ear, he had not tried so much to conceal it. Sansa had looked around to see if anyone else saw, but no one was paying any attention to her.

It was the same look then as it is now, and it gives her a heady thrill to realize that she can do anything to him now, anything at all, and he'll follow her lead.

His hand moves slowly, hesitantly, sliding up past her knee and up, up, up, so that his long fingers brush around to the inside of her thigh, and unlike her he isn't looking down at all, he's looking right at her; she can feel the weight of his stare even without seeing it.

"I have an idea," she murmurs, taking hold of his wrist so that she has control of what he does, so that she can guide him where she wants. "It's a game."

"What is it?"

"I'm going to ask you questions, and you have to answer all of them honestly." She glances quickly at him, where his eyes are dark and seem to burn through her. "Will you tell the truth?"

"Depends on what questions you ask." She pushes forward, moving him closer to her knee again, and he makes some wordless stuttering noise before he corrects, "Yeah, yes, I will."

"Good." She can't help her smile at the way his eyes go darker by the second, at the desperation he can't quite hide that's set in every move he makes and all of it for _her_ \- for Sansa Stark, the innocent little prude. "First question: do you really own a strip club in the city?"

"Yes."

"Did Joffrey ever go there when we were dating?"

"He was a regular."

"Were you the one who got him expelled?" She has long suspected this, even before tonight. Petyr had been the only person who had hardly reacted when Mom revealed this fact at dinner one night, and Sansa had wondered how Dean Baratheon knew to check his own nephew's locker for pills after that girl from another school ODed and nearly died.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I could. Because I didn't like him." Sansa tightens her grip around his arm, digging her nails ever so slightly in, and his hand drifts closer to the apex of her thighs. She feels something stir low in her stomach, a familiar, delicious ache. "I don't like him, or his family, or how they treat your mother. I didn't like how he treated you, either."

Sansa nods, thinking this over, absorbing the information. "I just have one more question," she says, quiet, barely even a whisper. In her grip, she can feel his muscles jumping, she can feel the goosebumps that form as he traces patterns on her skin, skimming over the waistband of her panties. She inhales sharply when he curls his fingers beneath the undergarment and rubs hard and fast against her, against where she's burning up like a fever.

He leans in closer to her, so that his lips are pressed just underneath her jaw, his breath tickling her. "What was the question?"

"I don't remember," she manages to grit out, going rigid and soft all at once in his touch, not wasting the effort of rolling her eyes when he laughs. Instead, she finds herself relaxing more every moment, as if she might sink into the velvety chair, a malleable thing for him to shape with his skillful hands, full of nothing but need and want and hunger.

Her eyes flutter closed, shutting out the light still flickering across the screen, the movie both of them have forgotten. She can do this, she tells herself, whatever _this_ is. She can be brave and courageous and cool like girls in movies, like Margaery, girls who go home with strange boys they've only spoken to once. She knows Mr. Baelish - _Petyr,_  she reminds herself, _he's getting you off right now, call him Petyr_ \- she's already a step ahead of them. And besides, there is the matter of the growing wetness between her legs, his mouth licking her neck, his fingers drawing her tight as a bowstring.

For a minute they remain side by side, Sansa's body still turned toward the front of the theater, his only halfway facing her, but the angle is awkward, his wrist bent so that he can't move fast enough, that he can't press hard enough. With a groan of annoyance and frustration and desire she grabs at his wrist, interrupting his ministrations, and she clambers from her seat so that she's facing him on his chair, her legs astride his lap, her arm around his shoulders.

His left hand slides up so that it grips the small of her back, where the cutout of her dress allows him to slip his palm underneath the fabric. His other he uses to continue what he started, to curl against her, inside of her, first one finger, then another, and he hisses at how tight she clenches around him, like he knows, like he knows what it means. He curls his fingers around her and curls his fingers inside her and fucks her against them, guiding her hips in frantic circles against his touch until Sansa feels she must be all nerves, all insides, all bare legs and sweating back and tangled hair, all everything he can get at with his hands, his lips, his tongue, until she's wound up like a doll with a key, ready to shatter at the slightest provocation.

Petyr tilts her head back suddenly from where she's been pressing her face against his shoulder, hiding the noises she can't help making. He has her hair fisted in his grasp, leaning her away so she can see his eyes, how the pupils are blown black, how disheveled he looks even when she's the one being undone. She knows, suddenly, that if she were to press her body against him, she'd be able to feel his hard-on through his pants, evidence of how much this is affecting him the same way it is her.

On his clean white shirt, she can see an imprint of herself, her pink lipsticked mouth a stain, open like a flower, against his clothing.

"Look at me, Sansa," he murmurs, his voice short of breath but still steely, controlled. _He wants to watch,_ she thinks a little hysterically, he wants to see what he has wrought. "Has anyone else ever made you feel like this?"

She can remember Joffrey, his few fumbling caresses and how they hadn't done anything, how they had hurt, and she shakes her head quickly.

" _Say it,_ " he commands.

She gasps, shuddering as she nears her climax. "Only you," she gets out, and then she's shaking, then she's coming, barely managing to stop herself from crying out. Through it all he keeps touching her, stroking between her slick lips, against the bundle of nerves at her center, until she relaxes again in his grip, still ironclad around her.

She leans forward, resting her forehead against his as she tries, in vain, to catch her breath. She should call this a mistake, she knows. She should think he took advantage. She can't, though, she can't think of anything but how she wishes she could make him unravel so that they match, each of them little heaps of blood and muscle and desire older than either of them can even imagine remembering.

She can't regret it, her legs around his body, her eyes still locked on his. Her open mouth against his open mouth, both of them passing heavy breath between them, a facsimile of a kiss they haven't yet shared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I went through all the trouble of creating an elaborate background and context for these happenings when I just really wanted to write a secret movie theater rendezvous. One more part for this! ~*~I wonder what will happen~*~ (lol u kno it's just more pointless porn)
> 
> Line at the beginning and title are taken from ["Froot"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ISYnGX9FZM4) by Marina and the Diamonds.


	2. honeysuckle

 

 

 

 \- sweet like honeysuckle late at night

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's only another moment, just one more moment for her to slow her breathing, to catch air and pull it into her lungs. She can see his eyes even in the dark, how intent they are on her, how wide his pupils are, and there's arousal there, there's want, but she can see the nervousness beginning to creep into his gaze. Nervousness for what, she doesn't know. That she'll regret it, probably; maybe that she'll tell.

It's only another moment, and then she's climbing off of him, standing up and walking fast from the aisle, down the stairs, out of the theater until she reaches the bathroom just across the hall and walks quickly in.

At the sink, she splashes water on her face, cold enough to make her skin prickle and dampen her hair at the temples. She doesn't look in the mirror yet, only stares down at the white porcelain and watches as the water swirls down the drain. When she finally finds it in herself to see her reflection, she's more surprised than she should be by what she finds.

Her face is flushed, her cheeks pink and lips red from her licking them, biting them. Her eyes are bright and more than a little wild, and her hair seems nearly beyond help, all chaotic and knotted as it falls over her back. She looks like she's been fucked, and she doesn't know if it's better or worse that the phrase isn't quite accurate. She didn't fuck him, but she did let him touch her, let him inside of her, even if it was only with his fingers. _  
_

Reflexively, her hands reach up and pull her hair, untamed as it is, into a loose bun, until she looks presentable and calm once again.

With the image of her hair in disarray vanished and her face beginning to pale, she could almost imagine that the whole thing never happened, that it was some fever dream born out of boredom and proximity. The eldest Stark girl would never be so foolish. A Stark would never be so foolish, but Sansa was, just then. That was her, not some girl in a movie. It was her who pressed her mouth to the spot behind his ear that made him shudder, it was her who whispered his name in the dark right before she came. There's no getting around it, no waking up from this dream uncomfortable with need and tangled in the sheets. It was her, and it was Petyr underneath her, his fingers inside of her, his mouth tasting the sweat beading at her throat and not kissing her, not even once.

And _Petyr._  Oh, he's much worse, isn't he? Twice her age, and he brings off his friend's daughter in some darkened theater like a reckless teenager - but even then she can't find it in herself to think of him as some lecherous old man, lusting after young blood. She's never seen that look in his eyes before, not around women of any age, no matter how beautiful. Like he was hungry for the touch of her skin, like he was  _starved_  for it.

She takes one last look at herself in the mirror: Sansa Stark in her white eyelet dress, her long legs ending in demure flats, her face clean of makeup ( _her lipstick on his shoulder, she wonders if he's noticed it yet_ ), and her eyes so wide and innocent. And _underneath_ \- only she and Petyr know.

When she gets out of the bathroom, she almost doesn't see him, standing silent beside the door of the theater. He's looking right at her, watching her as she freezes like a deer in the headlights, but he doesn't say anything yet. He only continues to wipe his right hand with a napkin from the concession stand, and then he tosses it in the trash. It takes her too long to understand why, and then she blushes again, certain that even in the dim light of the hall he can to see it.

He smirks momentarily, a quick expression of smug satisfaction passing over his face, and she knows that he does.

"Miss Stark," he says, inclining his head as if bowing to her, and is it just her or has his voice gotten deeper? Has it always been like this, like he's trying to make her think about how he sound if he were to tug at her waist and pull her underneath him and -

"You didn't finish the movie," he continues, that same gravelly drawl, and he seems almost amused as he regards her. There's an entire hallway between them, but Sansa feels like it's the space of inches, that if he were to reach out his hand he could take her right here.

"Neither did you," she points out, pleased that her voice doesn't shake, but he only smiles wider.

"It looks like we both have some time to kill, then."

Sansa arches an eyebrow at the sentiment. "Looks like it," she replies lightly, and without another word she sets off in the direction of the doors, not looking back to see if he'll follow.

She doesn't even need to hear the way his shoes tap against the tiled floor, then the pavement; she would know even without the noise that he's there.

After a minute or so of walking, they reach the parking garage, an ugly structure of concrete and steel where her car is parked. He catches up with her easily as they enter it, taking a place at her side. "This way," he says quietly, his hand grazing the small of her back, against her still damp skin.

It seems like they're the only people in the entire building, their steps echoing off the walls as they wind their way up the stairs and out onto the third floor. This time he leads her, guiding her toward a sleek black car that could, in all likelihood, pay four years' worth of tuition for her higher education.

Strangely, she doesn't feel anxious as she walks carefully toward his car, one step after the other. She might if he were another man. She does not quite trust him - trust is too strong a word for what she feels, and she has only a little information to go by - but she knows that her mother does. She knows that he would never harm Catelyn Stark's daughter, that if she were to turn around and leave right now he would not stop her with a hand around her wrist, his fingers leaving bruises that would purple and bloom like lilacs. He might, she thinks, try to convince her to stay, but he would not detain her like Joffrey had so many times, when he didn't feel that she had done her best to satisfy his needs and directed her on how to fist her hand against him, and then turned from her when it was over and saying either nothing, which was bad, or something cruel and cutting, which was worse, until she felt nothing but shame and disgust at very idea of him.

She can hardly believe that there was a time when she thought Joffrey was The One, the boy that she would give everything to and all the while call it love. She thinks, now, that she no longer needs the fantasy of a handsome prince with beautiful blonde hair and bright blue eyes, a perfect kiss, a happily ever after. Not when there are men in the world with gray eyes, sometimes green eyes, and dark hair and silver at their temples who would look at her like she was something to be savored and hungered over, who would not hurt her and all the while call it love, who would hold her at her back and make her fall apart in his hands and not ask for a thing in return, not until she offered it willingly.

Petyr walks her to the passenger side, and she wonders for a moment if he means to open the door for her. Instead, he suddenly turns and presses her against the car, eliciting a gasp from Sansa as her back touches the cold metal. He keeps her in place with his hands light around her waist, his knee between her legs, but even as he cages her in she knows it's an illusion - she's the one holding all of the cards.

"I have an idea," he murmurs, and for a moment, he's so close that his lips brush against hers as he speaks, his eyes half-lidded and dark. They're the same height, and she didn't know that she would appreciate the way she doesn't have to crane her neck up or down to look at him, but she does. Petyr leans back slightly to see her more clearly. "It's a game," he explains, as if she didn't already know what was coming next.

"What kind of game?" she asks, playing along, laughing a little breathlessly.

"I ask you questions, and you have to answer all of them honestly." He smirks as he repeats her words back to her, even more so when he adds, "And believe me, sweetling, I will know if you lie."

Sansa nods mutely, unable to do anything else. Rather than ask his first question immediately though, Petyr merely looks at her, his eyes roaming over her body and across her face. Then, all at once, he surges forward and kisses her.

She shouldn't be taken off guard by it, really, considering the fact that what they were doing only ten minutes ago amounted to something far more intimate than just kissing, but she still feels a nervous twist of pleasure low in her stomach at the way his teeth feel when he nips at her lower lip, at the way his tongue licks into her mouth, at the way his hands slide up her sides to pull the tie from her hair and tangle in the strands. This is so different from Joffrey, so different from every boy she ever made out with in high school on the couch in the living room while his parents were out. Petyr is all practiced movements and silent encouragement, imploring her with his mouth and his hands to respond in kind rather than simply stay still and passive.

At one point, she doesn't know when, he manages to hitch her legs around his waist, and when he finally breaks away from her, breathing heavy and hot into the crook of her neck, he's still holding her up against the car. She can feel him, a hard, hot press through layers of clothing that makes her shiver.

"What do you want?" he asks, nearly panting out the words. It seems almost like an accusation, the way he says it, but Sansa suddenly recalls their game.

She rests her hands on his chest, and, remembering himself, he releases her, placing her gently back on her feet but not moving otherwise, so that they're still unbearably close, flush against each other. She trails a finger along his shoulder, circling the lipstick stain that was all her doing, glancing up at the man in front of her from beneath her eyelashes, how he struggles to catch his breath, how his hair has long since jostled out of its careful style - _all her doing_.

He might believe he's the one getting everything he wants, but Sansa knows the victory belongs to her.

"I want you to fuck me," she says softly, and Petyr reaches a hand around her to open the car.

It's only a ten minute drive, but it feels more like an eternity. He's silent in the driver's seat, but despite this he keeps the hand not holding the wheel on her leg, tapping a rhythm against her skin, playing with the hem of her dress, tracing slow, lazy circles up her thigh, never quite reaching the point of indecency. As he navigates through the identical houses, she begins to recognize more landmarks from the few times her parents drove all of them to dinner at Mr. Baelish's apartment closer to the city, an expensive, tasteful set of rooms that felt smaller when all of the Starks were crammed into them.

There's no one outside, practically no cars on the road. It's a Sunday, a burning summer night, and the suburbs are all asleep or on their way to it. Sansa feels awake though, feels alive and wired as she watches the fences and gates and high hedges passing by the windows in a blur of green and gray.

By the time he pulls up outside of his building, the wheel climbed up onto the curb until he corrects it, swearing as he does so, Sansa can feel some of her nerves from before thrumming through her veins again. The whole thing is foolish, incredibly so, and she promised herself after Joffrey that she would never be foolish again, not where men were concerned.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Petyr asks. His second question. "I can drive you back, we can pretend this never happened."

"That's not really true," Sansa laughs, the sound nearing hysteria. "I couldn't pretend this never happened."

"Maybe not," he concedes. "But we could never talk about it again, and that's almost the same thing." He smiles, but she can tell that it's forced. He wants her, and he wants her to come to him willingly; she thinks he might even like her to beg him for it. "And you never answered my question."

Before she replies, Sansa takes a moment to consider, really consider. "I'm sure," she says slowly, carefully, and almost immediately he's out of his seat and on the other side of the car, opening the door and leading her quickly to the building, as if afraid she might bolt. She won't though, she knows that now. Whatever this is - she wants it, she _craves_ it, even more than she anticipated.

He must feel the same way, she thinks, when his hands shake as he fits the key into the lock of his door, when his hands shake as he skims them over her waist, walking her in the direction of the only room she has never been able to snoop in over the course of five years and several boring family functions - his bedroom. He flips her hair over one shoulder, exposing the back of her neck, and he places dry kisses there, where red tendrils wisp out, bright against her pale skin. Soon though, the innocent pecks - if they could be called that in the first place - lengthen and linger, traveling down her spine until he reaches the cloth of her dress.

She feels his hand flitting against her back, and the slow, agonizing pull of her zipper, its teeth separating one by one. By the time they reach the door, her dress is gaping open, and with nothing more than a shake of her shoulders the entire article of clothing falls off, pooling around her feet. She feels rather than hears Petyr's intake of breath, and Sansa smiles, knowing as she does that he cannot see her do so.

"White," he murmurs, his words nearly muffled against her skin, "of course you're wearing all white." He tilts her head back so that it falls onto his shoulder, and his mouth moves to claim the side of her throat. "Do you have any idea what you're doing to me?" he says, and each word is punctuated by a kiss, a lick, a bite.

The third question. "Yes," Sansa whispers, her voice almost cracking in two as he suddenly spins her around to face him, pushing her gently until she hits the wall beside the open door. He bends, his mouth trailing across her breasts, his tongue flicking out to trace her nipples through the sheer, gauzy material of her bra, and he pauses to unhook it and pull the scrap of fabric from her shoulders. Instinctively, in spite of the pleased noises she was making not seconds earlier, Sansa moves to cover herself, but his hands lightly grip her wrists before she does and move to pin them against the wall above her head.

It shameful, really, how much she likes that.

For a while - it could be minutes or hours, she seems to have lost any sense of time - there are no more questions, no more of the game that isn't really a game. They stay like that, suspended between going into the room and not, Sansa pushing herself wantonly into Petyr, against where he still aches for her, and both of them burning, burning, burning. His questions are all ragged moans into her mouth, against her neck; her answers are all little sighs and gasps of approval.

Eventually she breaks away again, finding his collar and pulling him forward so that he stumbles against her and through the doorway, into the room. As they walk, she toes off her flats, and, following her lead, he leans down to slip off his shoes - designer, she's sure, even his socks. She makes quick work of the buttons of his dress shirt, but before she can tug the material open he lifts her easily, grabbing below her knees so that she yelps inelegantly in surprise. She blushes at the sound, and when Petyr tosses her on the bed, he's laughing.

"Shut up," she manages to grit out before he covers her body with his, and she can feel him smiling against her mouth when he kisses her. They're chest to chest when he finally takes his shirt off, but she hardly even notices, distracted as she is when, moments later, his hands find her cotton panties and peel them from her hips, pulling them down her legs slowly, torturously.

Sansa bites her lip in an attempt to keep from making even more involuntary noises, but she can't help her whimper when his fingers find that spot underneath her curls and stroke roughly against her. She might feel slightly embarrassed at how she isn't shaved, how clearly unprepared she is - even if he touched her there before, he couldn't actually look - but he doesn't seem to mind, and she can't quite find it in herself to care when Petyr's hand is just _so_ -

"Are you a virgin?" he asks suddenly, the sentence a hum against her collarbone.

Underneath him, entirely naked and with Petyr's hands between her legs, his fingers slipping between her folds to feel how wet she is for him, Sansa almost laughs. "You already know the answer to that."

"I might. Maybe I just want to hear you say it." He leans up so he can see her face, and as he does Sansa perceives, for the first time, the enormous scar that slashes over his sternum, down to the last of his ribs. Her eyes widen at the sight, but Petyr hardly seems to notice. Gone is the gray in his gaze; his eyes are entirely green now, his pupils practically swallowing their irises, and clouded over with lust. His voice pours out of him in a rasp, like smoke. "Maybe I just want to hear that I'm the first man ever to see you like this, that I'll be the first man to make you scream."

She smirks. "You think I'm a screamer?"

He rolls his hips hard against her, the coarse material of his pants rubbing between her legs so that she gasps. "I think after tonight," he murmurs, "only you and I will know."

"Someone's arrogant," Sansa breathes out, reaching down to work open his belt buckle, sliding the leather from the loops of his slacks.

His hand covers hers, guiding it to undo the button, then the zipper. "For good reason, Sansa, I assure you."

She tilts her head up again to kiss him, if only to wipe the smug smirk from his face, but as he kicks away the last remaining articles of clothing separating skin from skin her breath hitches in her throat. She watches as he pulls his wallet from the pocket of his pants, and she hears the crinkle of a foil wrapper. She looks up at his headboard, too flustered to watch him put on the condom, and it's odd, how she notices at a time like this that he has very good taste in furniture.

She nods, her fingers pressing into his shoulder blades. "Yes," she says, and she doesn't know if she's answering or begging him, "you'll be the first."

Above her, Petyr nearly trembles, and within moments he's positioned himself at her entrance, within moments he's pushing into her - and it's painful, it's disconcerting, but not nearly as bad as she had imagined - and his breath shudders out as he says one word: _good_.

He's slow at first, allowing her to get acclimated, and Sansa is grateful for that, but soon she's the one urging him on, calling out words almost unconsciously, following the examples of women in romance novels she reads and hides behind other books on her shelf - _oh god_ and _yes_ and _right there_ and _harder,_ harder, _Petyr_.

Petyr, to his credit, is all too happy to oblige.

With every thrust, every groan of his into her mouth, she can feel something building low in her abdomen, and it's so good, so much better than any of her efforts alone in her bed, almost better than his focused attentions in the theater, and he keeps at it, harder and faster than before, his hips angled to draw those needy little noises from her lips. She begins to move with him, rocking up and back so that she can chase her release, and he groans out a curse.

"Are you close?" The question is directed into her neck, and when she replies only in the way of a breathy moan he slides his hand down between them and rubs against her, hurried, frantic strokes that soon push her over the edge.

She doesn't scream when she comes, pleasure washing over her body so that she tightens around his cock and her nails dig into his back and her toes curl, but the sound she makes is enough to send him falling quickly after her.

After a few long seconds, he pulls out, landing heavily at her side, and rids himself of the condom, throwing it in the general direction of the garbage bin in the corner of his room. As he settles back on the bed, Sansa wills her breath to steady as she lets go of the gray comforter from where she had been clenching it tight in her hands, the sheets now rumpled and shoved over to one corner of the bed.

"What time is it?" she says abruptly, and rather than respond Petyr just points in the direction of his nightstand, where a digital clock lights up the numbers in red. Considering that she hasn't heard her phone ring, she has maybe a half hour before anyone realizes she doesn't need to be out this late, just enough time to get back to the theater and drive back home.

Sansa sits up, running a hand through her hair in some pathetic attempt to right it - at least now she _has_ been thoroughly fucked - but before she can stand up on shaking legs she feels Petyr tug at her wrist, the sensation followed by his mouth on her shoulder.

"How did I compare?" The words are said against her skin, and she turns her head.

"To what?"

"All the fantasies."

Sansa smiles, her mouth quirking up at the corners; even men like Petyr Baelish have to know about how they performed. "You already used up all of your questions."

"You had one more," he reminds her, "but you forgot what it was. Not my fault."

She laughs. "Entirely your fault," she teases. "I'll answer this one, and I can ask another." Sansa reaches out, dancing her fingers along his side, listening as his breathing stutters when she touches them to the scar over his chest. "Where's this from?" she whispers, glancing up at him to watch how his eyes close, briefly, like it hurts.

"A fight," he says shortly, then, at the insistent press of her hands, continues, "I was a just a bit younger than you are now. He was bigger and stronger, but we were both holding bottles." He clicks his tongue. "Mine just shattered. His didn't."

"What was the fight over?"

He flinches, and his expression is suddenly colder. "That's not part of the game."

"Tell me," she commands, keeping her eyes on his.

"What else?" He chuckles, almost ruefully, then stands so that she can't see his face, only his shoulders as he shrugs. "A girl."

After a moment of thought, Sansa decides to drop the subject. She won't get anything else out of him - not now, at least.

She climbs off of the bed, pulling her underwear from where it was discarded on the floor, and, once she's not entirely nude, sets about finding the rest of her things in his living room. By the time she's fully dressed, her clothing slightly crumpled from being tossed around and kicked and crushed underfoot, Petyr has also emerged from his room, now clad in jeans and a light gray t-shirt rather than his work clothes from before. He seems smaller like this, with his hair in disarray, attempting to smile as easily as before and failing, just a little.

And it's not like she doesn't know that feeling.

"Oh my god," Sansa exclaims, turning away from him and mock-shielding her eyes. He's still, as if unsure about what exactly she's doing, but the false smile has left his face at least. "Why aren't you dressed?"

It's only another instant before he understands. "Fuck off," he smirks, beginning to cross the room.

"There's no buttons on your shirt, Petyr, what am I supposed to think?" By the time she finishes the sentence, he has turned her back to him, pressed up against his body. He kisses the last word off of her mouth harshly, as if in revenge, but she still laughs when he pulls away.

"I can always take this off again," he says, and it's almost a promise. His hand slips to the cutout of her dress, fingers toying with the bottom of the zipper. "I'm not sure this is the best fit for you either."

Sansa inhales sharply, in time with his hand drifting along the column of her spine. _Two can play at that game_.

"About before," she says softly, tracing the seam along his shoulder, "what you asked me." She fixes her gaze on him, pleased at the way his eyes nearly glass over, but she can't show her hand, not quite yet. She leans closer, her lips brushing against his. "It was _better._ "

Then, before he can really react, she extricates herself from his grip and saunters to the door, leaving him momentarily stunned in her wake.

"Aren't you coming?" she calls back after a minute, and his steps are fast to catch up with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here he is, guys: Petyr "haha so r u a virgin ;)" Baelish.
> 
> Can you believe there was a time when I was never going to write sex scenes? Now here's, like, eight thousand words dedicated to one. Forgive me, mom.


End file.
